


The Spaces In Between

by 1863



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Canon, Scars, Soulmate AU: Shared Scars - Knowing every time your soulmate was injured before you met, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25282114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: You can tell a lot about a person from the marks on their skin, but it’s never the whole story.
Relationships: Avi/Viggo Tarasov
Comments: 18
Kudos: 28
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	1. 1969

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livenudebigfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/gifts).



> Hovering over text in Russian will show the English translation (via Google, so it may not be very accurate).

**Moscow**

He doesn’t notice anything strange until he’s about nine years old. 

For the most part, Viggo is like any other boy and his arms and legs are scattered with all kinds of little marks—faint scratches and faded scars, bruises on knees and elbows. He doesn’t even remember where most of them came from; random falls or accidents, perhaps, or playing too roughly with his brother and other children. Viggo is a Tarasov, after all, and even at nine years old he knows that certain things are expected of him.

This scar, though... he’s sure that this one is different. 

It appears on his left knee overnight, an ugly scrape that’s red and raw and looks like it should be painful, but for some reason doesn’t feel like much at all. Viggo knows he hasn’t done anything that could have caused it. His knee looks like it was dragged over a chunk of rough stone or an unfinished road, but it was raining all day yesterday and he hadn’t gone outdoors.

“What are you looking at?” Abram asks, when he finds Viggo examining his knee in the bathroom. He peers at the scar and frowns. “How did that happen?” he demands. “Mama told us to stay inside.” 

“I did,” Viggo replies, annoyed. “This isn’t my fault. When I went to sleep last night it wasn’t there, and when I woke up, it was.” 

“Then how—” 

And Abram’s eyes go wide, suddenly, wide and round and disbelieving, and he stares at the scar with a look on his face that Viggo does not understand.

“Cover it,” Abram snaps, tugging down the leg of Viggo’s trousers with enough force that Viggo almost topples over. “Cover it and don’t tell anyone about it.” 

“But Papa might know why—”

“ _No_.” That one word alone is said so sharply that Viggo falls silent at once, but Abram still grabs him by the shoulders and squeezes hard. “You can’t tell anyone, Viggo,” he adds. His fingers dig in, deep enough to leave bruises. “Especially not Papa.” 

Viggo narrows his eyes. Abram may be older—he’s even been allowed to watch their parents working, sometimes—but everyone knows that Viggo is the clever one, the fierce one, the one who can’t help but push at things until they bleed. He knows there’s something more to this than what Abram is telling him.

“You think he will be angry with me,” Viggo accuses.

But Abram shakes his head. “No, Viggo,” he says, and sighs. His voice is strangely quiet. “I think he will be afraid for you.” 

* * *

**New York City**

“Stop picking at it,” his mother scolds, batting his hands away from his leg. “Do you want it to leave a scar?”

Avi remembers the rush of air in his face as the skateboard gathered speed down the hill, how the cheers and whoops from the kids on the sidewalk seemed so faint and far away. And he remembers his heart thump-thump-thumping in his chest and the way his throat closed up on a scream, and it was awful and scary and he knew it would hurt but he still kept trying to go faster—because everyone was watching him and for the first time ever, it wasn’t because he’d done something embarrassing like skip a grade at school again.

Avi pokes at the scab until a drop of blood beads up, bright red and shiny against the pale skin of his knee.

“If it does,” he says, grinning, “it’ll totally be worth it.”


	2. 1976

**Moscow**

Abram’s face is grave. 

“Are you sure about this?” he asks again. “You don’t have to do it.”

“It’s tradition.”

“Not always,” Abram counters. “Not for everyone.”

Nothing more is said out loud but Viggo hears the unspoken words anyway:

_Not for people like you._

Abram sees the look on his face and sighs. “Think about this for a moment, Viggo,” he insists. “Whoever she... whoever they are, they’ll see it. They’ll bear the scar, too. And if they aren’t even one of us, that’s—”

“I know,” Viggo snaps. “I know, Abram—I’ve known since I was nine years old and I’ll know until the day I die.” 

He’s more angry than he should be but even if he’ll never admit to why, the important thing right now is that Abram believes him. That he doesn’t care, that he'll always do whatever he needs to do regardless of how it makes him feel. 

Viggo will come of age soon and his future is already laid out; no official announcements have been made but they both know that Viggo is the one being groomed to take over, to lead the family when they move to the West. He can’t afford to show any weakness—not even at 16 years old. Not even in the privacy of his own bedroom, and not even when it comes to the life of a person that God himself has bound him to. 

“If she isn’t one of us,” Viggo adds, “then it won’t matter, will it? We’ll never even meet, and she’ll never know what any of it means.” 

And he slashes the knife across his inner forearm without hesitation, first left to right, then right to left, until a large cross of blood wells up on his skin. He hands the knife to Abram, who takes it and does the same to himself. Then they press their arms together, bleeding into each other, _X_ on blood-red _X_. An oath made permanent and physical; an oath made unbreakable and real.

“Семья,” Viggo says.

“Всегда,” Abram replies. 

Viggo’s gaze doesn’t waver as they wait for the bleeding to slow, eyes boring directly into his brother’s. Abram doesn’t falter either, just staring back in silence, but the sympathy on his face is as clear to see as the blood that stains their skin. Viggo only looks away when they finally pull apart, lowering his head to press a clean cloth against his arm. But he can feel Abram’s eyes still on him, heavy with things unasked, and the possibility that one of those things might be a question he can never answer—not to Abram, and not to himself—makes Viggo suddenly snap. 

“Say it,” Viggo demands. He lifts his chin and looks his brother in the eye again, defiant and angry and—yes—a little afraid. “It’s burning a hole in your tongue, isn’t it, Abram? Just say what you think I am.”

Abram’s face goes strangely blank and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, Viggo thinks he might actually do it—that Abram will say out loud what Viggo knows he’s suspected for some time now. This despite Viggo’s constant effort to never give himself away, despite saying all the right things and behaving in all the right ways and never letting his thoughts linger on things he knows he will never, ever have. 

But Abram just takes a deep breath, eyes clouding over as he shakes his head and looks away again.

“We are Tarasovs, Viggo,” is all Abram says. “We are brothers. And family must always come first.”

Whether he’s talking about business or blood, however, is a question Viggo doesn’t bother asking. Whatever Abram means, it doesn't make his words any less true.

* * *

**New York City**

“Forearm,” Avi mutters, rubbing his thumb over the newest scar. “It had to be the forearm.” He sighs and starts digging around his closet, resigned to having to wear long sleeves despite it being almost 90 degrees out. “You couldn’t have done it anywhere else, huh? Somewhere a little easier to hide?” 

Avi finds a clean sweatshirt and sits down on the bed, tracing the _X_ on his arm with the tip of a finger. Unlike the other scars that have appeared on his skin over the last six or seven years, this one doesn’t look accidental—there’s no way something as clean and precise as this could have come from anything but a deliberate cut. And Avi… Avi has no idea what to think about that. 

“You’ve gotta know by now,” he murmurs, tracing the scar again and again. “You had to know that when you did this to yourself, you were doing it to me, too.” 

And yet, they’d still gone and done it. Whoever it is, wherever they are… they’d still gone and sliced into their skin anyway. Was it a spur-of-the-moment thing, Avi wonders, or was it something planned? Or was it an attempt to communicate—to let him know that _they_ know and that Avi isn’t (won’t be, can’t be, will never be) facing this alone? 

“But that ain’t true, is it?” he asks, staring at the scar. “There’s no guarantee you’ll ever find me. Or that you’d even want to.” 

If his mom knew about this, she’d probably be over the moon. _My son_ , she’d say proudly, and make him stand on the stoop while she showed him off to the neighbours. _One of the lucky few._

But he won’t tell her, and he’ll never tell anyone, because after years and years of someone else’s scars showing up all over his body, after going through the confusion and the excitement and the fear, Avi’s got it all figured out now. The thing about being marked like this? The thing that no one ever tells you and no one else will believe, the thing Avi remembers when the guys catcall the cheerleaders while he has to try not to stare at the jocks, is this:

Knowing there’s someone out there who’s literally perfect for you doesn’t make a guy feel lucky. More than anything, it just feels like an inescapable trap. 


	3. 1978

**Moscow**

Viggo leans closer to the mirror, frowning as he prods at the scar on his chin. Until now, nothing has ever appeared on his face before—they were always on his arms or legs, or sometimes the backs of his hands; innocuous marks that could have been the result of any number of innocent things. An accidental fall, or a moment of clumsiness, or perhaps just a sudden distraction. But this new scar on his face, one sharp straight line that follows the angle of his jaw—

Viggo glances into the sink, where a razor still soapy with lather sits. He knows exactly what kind of scar this is, and what must have caused it, and the sight of it on his own skin means he can no longer deny that he knows something else now, too.

His life is a series of points on a list, everything mapped out and planned. He will join the family business, he will increase their success, he will ensure the cycle repeats again: he will marry, he will father an heir, and he will train that heir as his father now trains him. There is no room for deviation—this is his life, this is his future, and there is nothing else. There cannot be anything else.

Especially not a soulmate, and especially not a soulmate who is a man.

* * *

**New York City**

“Ow, Jesus, fuck,” Avi hisses, dropping the razor in surprise. Blood drips from his face, the bright red splashes an almost obscene contrast to the clean white bowl of the sink. He fumbles for a tissue but freezes suddenly, a muscle in his back seizing up at the unexpected movement. 

“Fuck,” he says again, closing his eyes and trying to breathe through the pain. 

Must be an old injury, he thinks. It’s been a while since the last beating—if anything, Avi’s social standing is higher now than it’s ever been, now that he’s learned to offer his considerable brainpower to whoever’s willing to pay for it. He’s been able to write AP-level papers since middle school; if certain dumbasses think they’re worth ten bucks and leaving him in peace for a while, Avi’s not going to argue. And then, of course, there are the guys who only use that as a thin excuse, the ones who only buy so they have a reason to pay with things other than money—

Avi pushes that thought aside. As much he enjoys those payments—and he really fucking enjoys them—this is different. This is something separate, something personal, and for whatever reason, he wants to keep it that way.

When he can move again, Avi washes the blood off his face and checks the damage. The cut looks worse than it is, but it’s definitely deep enough to leave a scar.

“Great,” he mutters. “Fucking perfect. What a perfect fucking start to the day.”

He’s been so careful for so long, always making sure that the assholes who rough him up never get him in the face, or anywhere else he can’t cover up. Not that he really gives a damn if he ends up with visible scars from getting beat on, but he doesn’t want to be responsible for them ending up on someone else's face. And yeah, the one on his forearm was probably done deliberately but just because the other guy is an inconsiderate jerk, it doesn’t mean that Avi has to be one as well. 

Besides, Avi doesn’t want him to think that he’s the kind of guy who gets into fights for kicks. Because he isn’t—or, well, okay, maybe he could keep his mouth shut a little more often, and maybe he could learn to stop spitting insults when he’s being kneed in the gut, but Avi being some kind of genius doesn’t mean he also isn’t kind of dumb sometimes, too.

“More than kinda dumb,” he admits, pressing a tissue against the cut. All that effort out the window over a stupid mistake while shaving. “Sorry, man,” he adds quietly. “I didn’t mean it. But hey—if we’re lucky, maybe it’ll make us look kind of cool.”


	4. 1980

**Moscow**

Viggo glances up when he hears the door creak open, even though he already knows who it will be.

“Ten minutes,” Abram murmurs. He seems to hesitate, then steps inside and leans back against the door, pushing it shut and preventing anyone else from coming in without warning. “Viggo,” he starts, “there might still be another way—”

“ _Enough_.” 

Abram’s jaw tightens but mercifully, he says nothing more. In many ways the two of them are very different people, but stubbornness is a family trait they both inherited and Abram has brought this up far too often already.

Viggo takes a deep breath. “What is it that you expect from me?” he asks. Abram doesn’t reply and Viggo has to laugh; how very like Abram to insist on asking the question but be unwilling to provide an answer. “You want me to tell them that not all my scars are my own? To deny what I was born to do? Ignore all these years of preparation and just walk away?” Viggo shakes his head. “This is what we _are_ , Abram. Without this we are nothing.”

“Yes, I know.” Abram doesn’t sound angry so much as he just sounds tired. “Or do you forget that I have a tattoo on my chest already?” 

Abram’s own initiation ceremony had taken place over a year ago—considerably later than it should have been, but Abram never revealed his reasons for waiting and Viggo never asked why. That was between Abram and their father, and if their father had allowed it then it wasn’t Viggo’s place to question the decision.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he says. The edge in his voice has softened slightly and Abram hears the apology in it, accepting with a slight tilt of his head. “But why do you keep bringing this up? Even now, when the ceremony is about to start.” 

Abram fiddles with the cuff of his shirtsleeve for a moment before he suddenly looks up. His gaze is uncharacteristically direct and its aim is sure and true, and Viggo’s pulse stutters a little in surprise. Surely Abram wouldn’t finally voice his suspicions now—not here, of all places, and not now, of all times—

“You’re right, Viggo,” Abram says. “I apologise. I won’t bring it up again.” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “I don’t suppose either of you have a choice, do you?”

Viggo looks his brother dead in the eye. “About what?” he asks. His voice is very, very even.

But Abram just shrugs. “Any of it.” 

“We are Tarasovs,” Viggo replies flatly. “You and I both know that some choices are few and far between for us. This is just another one of many.”

Abram is quiet for some time. “Our parents made the right choice, naming you as successor,” he says eventually. He smiles, faint but sincere. “You will be a formidable Pakhan, Viggo.” 

And although the words are complimentary and the smile isn’t forced, Abram’s voice betrays him all the same. He doesn’t sound happy, or admiring, or proud. To Viggo’s ears, Abram’s quiet words sound nothing but profoundly sad.

**

The ceremony goes on for hours. Prayers are recited, papers are signed, vows are formally offered and accepted. Viggo’s head spins a little, the air so thick with incense and cigarette smoke that it makes it difficult to breathe. He can see his parents in the small crowd below the altar; his father stern but approving, his mother dabbing at her eyes. Abram is with them too but the expression on his face is considerably more complex. 

Viggo looks away. The time has finally come; he can’t afford to get distracted now. He’s lying on the padded table, stripped to the waist and anointed with oils and waters that were blessed by the family priest. And the _kol'shchiki_ sits nearby, his tools laid out and ready to begin as soon as he’s given the sign.

Viggo has been preparing for this his whole life, applying himself to his training with a single-minded focus that made it easy to push any distractions aside. He has temptations, of course, and weaknesses too—as every man does—but he has never allowed any of them to tug so hard that it pulled him off course. Viggo has no idea if any of it would be different if his parents knew the truth about where some of his scars came from, but when the _kol'shchiki_ gets to work and marks him forever as a true member of the Bratva, Viggo does know this: 

It’s not the pain of his first tattoo that makes his chest tighten; it’s not the thought of a cluster of needles piercing his skin that makes his stomach twist. 

_This mark is my birthright_ , he tells himself, _this mark is proof that I possess the skills to do what I was born to do_. 

But to be responsible for someone else bearing this mark, for forcing them to carry all of its burdens and all of its stigmas and knowing they'll never have any of its privileges—

Viggo thinks of a stranger he’ll never know, a person—a _man_ , he forcefully amends—with a face he would not recognise but whose scars he’d know at a glance. 

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe through it, but when he swallows the useless apology that bubbles up in his chest, the guilt tastes appropriately bitter.

* * *

**Cambridge, Massachusetts**

Avi has no idea what it means but he knows it’s not an ordinary tattoo.

Not that even ordinary tattoos are all that ordinary. People with soulmates aren’t that common and ones who actually find each other are even rarer than that, but they’re common enough that tattoos are still a little taboo—even in the Village or the clubs in Tribeca, where pretty much anything else goes. A tattoo instantly marks you out as the most selfish kind of dick, the kind of person who doesn’t give a fuck about how their actions might affect other people. And now, Avi’s got one right in the middle of his fucking chest.

“I guess I should be grateful that it’s not on my hand or my face or something,” he mutters, tracing the edge of the cross where it sits over his sternum. “At least I can cover it up.” 

It’s not the kind of cross he’s seen outside some of the churches back home, in Midtown. This one is more ornate, more stylised, and despite steering clear of anything that could risk the full-ride scholarship he'd worked his ass off to get, Avi knows enough to recognise that this isn’t the kind of thing a devout believer would get tattooed on themselves. Or at least, not a devout believer in god. 

“Just my luck,” he says, and sighs. He glances over at the pile of law textbooks he’s already started reading, despite only being an undergrad. “I _would_ get bonded to a fucking criminal.”


	5. 1985

**New York City**

The ER doctor gives him the stink eye as she stitches him up.

“Really?” she asks. “You thought that wandering around Central Park in the middle of the night, dressed like that, was a good idea?”

“Like I said, I’ve been away at college for the last few years," Avi replies. "It’s been a while since I’ve been home. Guess I forgot some of the rules.” He hisses a little when she pulls at the thread but still manages to dredge up a passable grin. “Besides, what do you mean, ‘dressed like that’? Dressed like what?” 

“You look like you work on Wall Street.”

“So you’re saying I look good in a suit?”

The doctor shakes her head. “Did you try to sweet talk your way out of getting mugged, too?”

“Yeah, but apparently my charms don’t work on everyone. Weird, huh?”

“Unfathomable.” She finishes up the stitches and dresses them with a bandage before taking a moment to prod the area around it, fingers gently pressing into his stomach. “You’re lucky they didn’t cut you any deeper,” she adds. “Now are you going to call the police and tell them the truth, or what?”

“What?” Avi repeats blankly. “What are you talking about?” 

“Oh, come on.” She gestures at the cross on his chest, now just one of half a dozen tattoos scattered over his torso—stars on each shoulder, Latin text below his collarbone, a skull on the inside of his forearm. “I’m an ER doctor in New York City. I can guess what some of those mean.”

Heat floods Avi’s face, half from embarrassment, half from shame. “No,” he starts. “They're not—I mean, I’m not—” 

The doctor cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “Forget it. Just—forget I said anything.” She nods to the stitches on his stomach, the jagged cut at least five inches long. “I did the best I could, but it wasn’t a clean cut. It’s probably going to leave a scar.” 

Avi just sighs and starts buttoning up his shirt. “No problem,” he replies tiredly. “I sort of collect them.”

* * *

**Moscow**

He’s in the shower when he notices it, curving up from his belly button and towards his ribs in a thick, shaky line. Viggo is so surprised that he actually freezes, the water stinging his eyes as he stares, unblinking, at the brand new scar on his skin.

It’s the first one that’s appeared in quite some time—a year or two at least—and it’s by far the biggest one. Viggo rubs his thumb over it; slightly raised and a little pink, like it’s not yet quite healed. Not precise enough to be from a surgery, he thinks, as something hard and implacable settles in his bones and makes his fingers twitch. And too messy to be anything but immensely painful. 

Of course, it could be the result of an accident, just another innocent scar like the dozens Viggo has shared since childhood. But the thought of it _not_ being from an accident, the thought of this being done on purpose—to inflict pain, to wound or even kill; the thought of someone deliberately causing the suffering of the one man in all the world who is his—who is his—

Viggo covers the scar with one hand and has to close his eyes.

He can’t tell how deep the cut had gone, or how bad the injury was. The faint thread of worry he feels is entirely expected.

What Viggo does not expect, however, is the overwhelming flood of rage.


	6. 1992

**Chelsea, Manhattan**

Avi can’t believe it.

“You have gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

Somewhere between stumbling from the bedroom to the bathroom—it couldn’t have been more than, what, six or seven steps?—five new scars have appeared: one on his left shoulder, two near his ribs, and two more right next to the one he got when he was mugged a few years ago, when he first moved back home. 

After a good 20 years of this, of scars and tattoos just showing up on his skin without warning, Avi doesn’t really get surprised anymore when a new one pops up. But these scars are different. 

They’re not the minor kind that show up on his knuckles or the backs of his hands, the kind that fade away in time anyway. But they're not like the other scars he has, either—the alarmingly thick gash on his upper thigh, for instance, or the almost elegant arch of silvery tissue that runs all the way across his chest, cutting the tattooed cross in two. 

These scars are small and round and even if he wasn’t becoming increasingly familiar with the shadier side of the city through the clients he meets at work, Avi would have recognised them anyway. Only one thing could make scars that look like this.

“Five shots,” he says, touching each scar with the tip of a finger. “Five bullets, all hitting home.” He tries to imagine it, the faceless stranger he’s bound to, shot up and bleeding out and—shit, maybe even dying. There would be blood everywhere, Avi thinks. Blood and who knows what else, seeping into his clothes, pooling around his fingers if he’s trying to stop the flow, soaking into the ground if he’s been cut down and can’t get up again. Is he alone, Avi wonders, alone and in pain and afraid? Or is someone there to help him? Getting shot in the gut is dangerous; if he doesn’t make it to a hospital soon, then he might not even—

A wave of nausea hits Avi without warning, and he barely makes it to the toilet bowl before he’s heaving his guts out. His hands are shaking when he presses the flush.

“Get a fucking grip,” he tells himself, washing his hands and rinsing his mouth out. “They wouldn’t leave scars if the shots were fatal, right?” 

He splashes cold water on his face and takes several deep breaths. Freaking out at the prospect of the other guy dying makes zero sense; they’re strangers to each other and always will be. After all, the only thing the bond has ever done is make his life that much harder. 

The tattoos that litter his skin—almost a dozen now—mean that Avi has had to be vigilant to the point of paranoia about making sure they’re never, ever seen. He always wears long sleeves no matter what the weather, never unbuttons his shirt collar when he’s at work, and he definitely never lets anyone he fools around with see him naked. Some of them bail right away when he insists on keeping his clothes on, thinking he’s got some hang-up about being into guys or else just has some kind of weird fetish. But others just go with it—and sometimes get into it—and it’s all fine and dandy right up until it’s not.

Avi’s generally okay with it, especially since he’s always so busy with work. But he has to admit that there are some days when it all just catches up with him—when all the things he has to hide and all the effort it takes to hide them just pile up and up and up, and it weighs him down and wears him out to the point where he just wants to scream. What kind of asshole gets tattoos when he _knows_ he’s bonded? What kind of man would make someone bear burdens they don’t even deserve? 

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters to himself, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. There are shadows under his eyes and he’s looking too thin, and with the tattoos and scars all over his body, he looks less like the hotshot lawyer he is and more like the clients he represents. “You’re no innocent, either.” 

And he isn’t. He really, _really_ isn’t, and as time goes by he’s becoming even less so. It’s not like he deliberately went out to cultivate the kind of reputation that put him on mobster’s speed dials, but Avi’s never been able to keep his mouth shut when faced with blatant stupidity. He couldn’t do it as a kid, even when it got him punched in the gut; he still can’t do it now even though the consequences could be a lot more severe.

All he did was fix a few dumb mistakes, and if the fixing ended up benefitting certain interested parties, then it was hardly Avi’s fault. And when he started fixing things that maybe technically didn’t need to be fixed, and if his rewards for the fixes keep getting exponentially bigger? Well. What’s he supposed to do? Just ignore it and walk away?

“I don’t get shot for it, at least,” Avi says. “Whatever shady shit I get up to, at least it’s never come to this.” He runs his fingers over the bullet scars again, half-expecting them to start bleeding. “Five shots… Jesus.” Avi swallows, trying to push aside another wave of useless panic. “What the hell kind of trouble are you in?”


	7. 1993

**Brighton Beach, Brooklyn**

Viggo rubs some salve over his newest tattoo, bestowed upon him only a few days ago. A welcome gift, his brother had said, and the latest entry in the history of his life as displayed upon his skin. It’s a lurid autobiography, a crude catalogue of mementos that mark every milestone he’s reached since his official induction, well over a decade ago now: the death of his father and the birth of his son; the first time he went to prison and the last rival he killed.

And now, Viggo has another one. An eagle in mid-flight that spans the left half of his chest, its wings brushing the Orthodox cross that started it all. 

The sounds of an unfamiliar city bleed in through the windows, disrupting the silence of his empty apartment. He’s alone here, for now, and the relative quiet is a blessing. He chose not to bring Iosef with him, not yet—it’s safer for the boy to stay in Europe, until Viggo has properly established himself here.

But this is what his father trained him for, what Viggo has been working towards for years. In Moscow, they are well-regarded but minor players; a name to be respected, but not one to be feared. Here, however, the structures are newer, more malleable, and Viggo knows that this city is his for the taking if he plays his cards just right. If he’s clever and relentless and absolutely focused, with no distractions of any kind—

“Боже мой,” Viggo gasps, and stares with morbid curiosity as a new scar takes shape right before his very eyes. 

It’s on his right forearm, near the crook of his elbow—just under the skull he received in his early twenties, when a particularly brutal incident with an enemy faction cemented his reputation for good. 

A single line appears, slowly extending over his pale skin, then another, until they form a large, pinkish-red _X_. 

A skull and crossbones now, Viggo thinks, but then he catches sight of his other arm, where there is another cross-shaped scar—an almost perfect mirror image, in fact, of the one that just appeared. And Viggo has to take a breath as understanding starts to dawn, as the implication of what is happening truly sinks in. 

Not only was this new scar given to him deliberately, it was done _right_ at this very moment. Right now, somewhere in the world, Viggo and the man he’s been bound to since childhood are both doing the exact same thing—contemplating the extraordinary intimacy of what the two of them share, and knowing that in the end, it means absolutely nothing. 

They’ll never meet. They’ll never know each other, never even recognise each other, and the only way they’ll ever communicate is this: through scars and tattoos, through broken skin and spilled blood and—

“Pain,” Viggo says. This man deliberately chose to hurt himself today, chose to suffer just to send Viggo this sign. 

He sits down on the edge of the bed and touches the scar with careful fingers. He could send a message back, it wouldn’t even hurt that much—but he pushes the thought aside before it has a chance to take root. 

Viggo came to this city with a job to do. He cannot afford to get distracted now.

But if he can’t send the message through his skin, he can at least say it out loud. It won’t be heard, of course, or seen, but for some reason it seems important to acknowledge that the words do exist in him, secret or no. It’s important to prove that they are, at this precise moment, as sincere and true as they can ever be.

“Простите,” Viggo whispers. “Простите.” He traces the word into his skin, right over the newest scar, again and again and again. “Простите.” 

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._


	8. 2000

**Lower Manhattan**

“He’s here, sir.” 

Viggo looks up from his desk, to where Kirill is looming near the door. 

“Already?” he asks. “He’s early.”

“Punctual,” Kirill agrees. His mouth flattens into a thin line, as though it pains him to admit this. “A good sign.”

“Perhaps. Better than being late, at least.” Viggo checks his wristwatch, then takes a moment to straighten his cuffs and tie. “Very well, then. Let him in.” 

Kirill taps his earpiece, relaying the order to the guards outside. Shortly afterwards the door swings open and a surprisingly youthful-looking man steps through it, glancing briefly at Kirill before he turns to Viggo and smiles. Viggo is momentarily caught off-guard—it’s not a nervous smile, nor an uncertain one; if anything, it seems perfectly genuine and makes him look even younger. 

“Mr Tarasov?” 

Viggo remains seated and silent, watching with concealed interest as the other man doesn’t miss a beat. He simply steps further into the office, smile still in place, until he’s standing on the other side of the desk. 

“It’s good to meet you, sir,” he adds, and extends a hand. 

Viggo doesn’t take it.

“Sit,” he says instead, nodding to the chair. “We have much to discuss, Mr—”

“Avi.”

“Excuse me?”

“Avi,” the man repeats. He takes a seat and shrugs a little. “I’m not really one for formality.”

“Then perhaps we don’t have much to discuss, after all.”

Avi stares at him for a moment. And then, shockingly, he—

He _laughs_. This man—an outsider, unknown to them and not even Russian—is laughing like he’s amongst friends. 

Before Viggo can respond, however, Kirill shifts a little—barely more than a step to the side but Avi still notices it, despite the fact that Kirill is not in his line of vision. Avi raises both hands, in a gesture that seems to encompass multiple things at once—apology, surrender, appeasement.

“Let me rephrase,” he adds quickly, although his voice remains intriguingly calm. “I’m not one for formality when it’s directed at me. But I know that you and your people have your ways and I assure you, Mr Tarasov, I absolutely respect them.” He pauses, then adds, “Whatever you need me to do, sir, I’ll do it.”

Viggo says nothing for some time. He’s learned over the years that doing the unexpected puts people on edge, and aside from finding it amusing to watch grown men jump like school children sometimes, it’s also an effective way of keeping everyone in line.

Avi, however, betrays no obvious discomfort at the increasingly lengthy silence. Indeed, the only sign that he may not be as calm as he appears is a very slight tension in his jaw. Viggo’s curiosity intensifies. He must be older than he looks and for all his casual behaviour, he must understand what’s at stake here. 

“Need?” Vggo asks eventually. “Not want?” 

Avi shrugs again. “That’s a thin line,” he points out. “And one that’s hard to see, sometimes.”

Viggo raises an eyebrow.

“But it’s a line that you can see clearly?”

At this, he gets another smile—smaller, but no less genuine.

“That’s my job, sir. And you wouldn’t have invited me here today if you didn’t already know that I’m very, very good at it.”

Viggo has to laugh a little. The display of confidence is unsurprising, but the effect it’s having on him certainly is. Lawyers willing to play both sides of the law are as easy to find here as they were in Moscow and Viggo has trialled several already. But Avi has something that the others lacked, something innate and instinctive that Viggo knows he can use to great advantage here—an unexpected, and unexpectedly effective, natural charm.

“You’re not lacking in confidence, at least,” Viggo observes.

Avi’s smile widens. “Can’t get too far in this city without some chutzpah, sir.”

“So I’ve learned.” 

Viggo leans back in his chair, considering. He’s already given this a great deal of thought, weighed up whether or not it’s worth the risk to bring an outsider into their midst. But local knowledge is something they lack and the circumstances that brought Avi into their sphere are undeniably impressive—even to staunch traditionalists like Kirill. And a man—a native New Yorker, no less—who could be this forthright whilst giving so little away could be a very valuable asset to them. Meeting Avi face-to-face has only cemented Viggo’s decision. 

“You’re right, of course,” he adds. “I invited you here for a reason. What you did for Anatoly Federov was very skillfully done.”

Avi accepts the compliment with a nod of his head. “Watertight, sir. Feds can’t touch him.”

“And when those Feds questioned you afterwards,” Viggo continues, “when you were threatened with all manner of unsavoury consequences for breaking the law, you gave nothing away.” 

“Ah,” Avi says, ducking his head a little and looking up at Viggo from under his eyelashes. “I’m afraid that’s not entirely accurate.”

From his position near the door, Kirill shifts again, and Viggo narrows his eyes.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I didn’t give anything away,” Avi says, “because I had nothing _to_ give away. I didn’t break any laws, sir. And no matter how hard you or they or anyone else looks, I think you’ll find that Mr Federov didn’t, either.”

Viggo tries to suppress a smile and doesn’t quite succeed. 

“Watertight, hmm?”

“Watertight.”

Viggo glances at Kirill, whose face, of course, betrays nothing. But he does nod, just once, and if Kirill can be sufficiently convinced then Viggo is confident that the other brigadiers will agree as well. Still, in order for an outsider to survive here, he needs more than confidence and the skills to back it up. Threats will come from all sides, including within.

“Many still doubt you,” Viggo says. 

Avi watches him carefully for a moment, the look on his face giving nothing away. Then he sits up, straight-backed and serious and his voice, when he speaks again, is surprisingly grave.

“Look, sir,” he starts. “Cards on the table? I’m not Russian. I’ll never be Russian, can’t speak Russian, can’t even pass for a Russian who’s mute. You know that, I know that…” He trails off and gestures to Kirill behind him. “Tall, dark and stoic back there knows it too.” 

He leans in a little and for the first time since his arrival, there’s a flicker of something deeper than light amusement in his eyes. It’s something Viggo recognises, because he’s seen in it his own eyes and the eyes of all his best men—an undeniable, unshakeable strength of will.

“I understand that this isn’t some part time gig,” Avi adds. “You take me on, sir, and I know that you take _all_ of me. No second guessing and no second chances. And I know there’s only one way out.”

The words are more than just words. Federov had been arrested for the murder of a traitor, a traitor he left in pieces so mutilated that the remains barely looked human. Avi has seen the consequences of betrayal first-hand.

“And you accept this trade?” Viggo asks. “Your life for the Bratva? Your life in my hands?”

Avi doesn’t even blink.

“Mr Tarasov,” he says. “I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t confident in what I could do. But it goes both ways, sir.” He pauses, then smiles again. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t also have absolute confidence in you.”


	9. 2001

**Lower Manhattan**

“Thanks,” Iosef mutters, when Viggo heads for the other side of the desk. “I owe you one. You ever need anything, man, you just let me know and I'll hook you up.”

Viggo pretends he doesn't overhear, making a show of searching for his cigarettes. He can't see Avi's face but the brief pause before he replies tells Viggo that he’s trying not to laugh. 

“Don’t mention it, kid. It’s the kind of thing I can do in my sleep.” 

‘That kind of thing’ being providing Iosef's latest boarding school with some… strong encouragement, to reverse their decision to expel him after yet another stupid, pointless incident of violence. Viggo knows he’s partly to blame for it—he’s never discouraged Iosef’s instinct to react with his fists first; or more accurately, to allow his hangers-on to land the blows for him. But finding new schools willing to take Iosef on was becoming more trouble than it was worth and he’s glad Avi is here now to take care of such things. Even Iosef, it seems, is glad of that.

“When do you go back?” Viggo asks, and lifts his head. 

“Tomorrow, Отец.” Iosef straightens up when Viggo rounds the table again. “Victor’s mother will drive us.” 

“Very well. I have work to do, so I won’t see you again until the end of term.” He reaches out and grabs Iosef’s shoulder, squeezing almost hard enough to bruise, and nods approvingly when Iosef manages not to flinch. “Enjoy your last night of freedom, son.” 

Iosef leaves soon after that, with a solemn promise to stay out of trouble tonight. 

“Want me to get someone to tail him?” Avi asks, as soon as Iosef is out of the room.

Viggo has to laugh. “You know him too well. But I’ve already put Kirill on it.” Avi smirks at that; it’s been an ongoing challenge for him to get Kirill to show something other than grim determination on his face. “And I echo my son’s sentiments,” Viggo adds, leaning back against the desk. “This Headmaster was even more apologetic than the last.”

Avi shakes his head. “I’m telling you Viggo, that guy gets around. He really needs to learn how to cover his tracks.”

“Not too thoroughly, though.”

“No,” Avi agrees, grinning, “not too thoroughly.” 

And they stand there, smiling at each other, for just a fraction longer than they should. It happens too often, Viggo knows, but he can’t seem to help it—it comes upon him without warning, a sudden wide grin or a clever turn of phrase grabbing his attention and refusing to let him go. And thus glances that should be brief start to linger, and lingering looks soon become outright staring, and when Avi starts to stare back, cautious and watchful but not entirely without interest, Viggo finds it difficult to remember why he should look away again.

Avi is the one who breaks the silence this time. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it quickly, but not so quick that Viggo fails to notice the slight tremor in his hands. 

“I should get going,” Avi says. “The Lukashenko trial starts next week. I told Galkin I’d lend him a hand with it.” He takes another drag and then just stands there for a moment, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. “Unless you want me here for anything else?”

The question is innocent enough but the steadiness in Avi’s eyes is not. Viggo can’t help but chuckle; Avi’s instinct to push at things makes him more suited for life in the Bratva than any of them ever expected.

“I did want to ask you something, actually,” Viggo replies, lighting a cigarette of his own. He doesn’t miss the way Avi’s eyes track the movement of his mouth and hands; how he stares, just for a moment, when Viggo licks his lips. “I’m thinking of moving,” he adds. “I want Iosef to be established somewhere other than Brighton Beach when he graduates. Is there somewhere you would recommend?”

“Well,” Avi says, shrugging, “it’s always good to be where the old money is, I guess.” 

“Upper East Side, then?”

“Upper East Side.” 

Viggo nods, flicking ash from his cigarette. “And what about where you live?” he asks. “Would you not recommend that?”

“Chelsea?” Avi says, going still, a certain wariness in his voice now. 

“Yes, Chelsea.” 

Avi slowly raises the cigarette to his lips again. “Chelsea’s nice,” he says, taking a quick puff before turning away a little to exhale. “If you’re into that kind of thing.” 

The obvious response is to ask what, exactly, that kind of thing is—which is precisely why Viggo doesn’t.

“I see,” he says instead. “A place better suited, perhaps, to the young... _bachelor_.” He gestures to Avi as he says this, and is forced to suppress a smile when he sees a flash of—something, in Avi’s eyes. “Thank you for your advice,” he adds, before Avi can respond. “Good luck with the trial, Avi.” 

It’s a clear dismissal, but Avi doesn’t leave straight away. Instead, he takes another drag, watching Viggo closely with a small frown on his face. 

“Was there something else you wanted from me?” Viggo asks. 

Avi opens his mouth, but stops and shakes his head.

“Good luck with the move, sir,” is all he says. It's not lost on either of them that he doesn’t answer the question. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” 


	10. 2003

**Brighton Beach**

“Well?” Viggo leans back in his chair and fixes him with an expectant look. “You’ve gone over the files and the footage. What do you think?”

Avi shakes his head.

“What do I think? Come on, Viggo. I knew you wanted this guy on your team just from the look from on your face when you told me about him. The files are just the icing on the cake.”

Viggo doesn’t quite keep up the pretence but he doesn’t drop it entirely, either. Avi can see the smile in his eyes and the corners of his mouth, and even though they’re alone in the office and the door is locked, they’re still in Brighton Beach. This is the Bratva’s home turf, where their families and wealth and stashes are kept and where only the staunchest allies are allowed. And the fact that he's now counted among them is something that still takes Avi by surprise sometimes. He never expected that he'd be invited here, figuring he’d just work remotely from the offices in Manhattan, but over the last three years of service Avi has proven his loyalty—and his commitment—a thousand times over. 

There was the big stuff, of course: getting guys out of jail, laundering vast amounts of cash, putting the legal squeeze on dozens of Viggo’s rivals and enemies. But Avi knows that it’s the little things that really made the difference, that showed Viggo and his men that he isn’t just here for the mob’s payouts (which, admittedly, are pretty sweet)—he’s here for its people, too.

Covering up Iosef’s many indiscretions, for one, or quietly helping Kirill sort out visa issues for his sister. And Viggo... well. For Viggo, Avi’s done all that and more besides, and if the reasons for him going above and beyond for Viggo in particular are becoming less and less professional, no one else has to know about it. 

“Answer the question, Avi,” Viggo says now. Amusement lights his eyes as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes from a drawer under his desk. “I’ve never known you to hold back from giving a truthful opinion, even when you know it will displease me.” 

“That’s not what you hired me for,” Avi points out. “Remember the first time I did it, though? Jesus, I thought Kirill was going to have an aneurysm.” 

The amusement in Viggo’s face turns into outright mirth, eyes crinkling at the corners as he starts to laugh. 

“In his defense, that kind of thing is what I do pay _him_ for.” He starts rifling around another drawer, muttering about the whereabouts of his lighter. “In any case," Viggo adds, raising his voice again, "it seems he’s become accustomed to your honesty now. He’s the one who insisted you view those files before we make an offer, even though the Director at the Tarkovsky already gave us her assurances.”

“John Wick,” Avi murmurs, flipping through one of the files again. “Well, there’s not much more I can tell you. All his info checks out and his skills speak for themselves.” He glances up when there’s no response. Viggo has a cigarette in his mouth now but he's still looking for a lighter. “Here,” Avi says, fishing out a Bic from his jacket pocket and leaning across the desk. “You can take mi—” 

Strong fingers close around his wrist, tight enough to skirt the edge of pain. 

“I can take your what?” 

Viggo’s voice is quiet—too quiet, much quieter than it was before. His fingers are very warm.

Avi licks his lips and absolutely doesn’t notice the way Viggo’s eyes drop straight to his mouth. The door’s locked, Avi reminds himself; there’s no danger of Kirill or Francis or anyone else barging in and seeing—what, exactly? From the outside, nothing particularly strange is going on, nothing that would warrant anything more than a raised eyebrow. But Avi’s heart rate doubles anyway and he knows that Viggo must be able to feel it; his pulse is racing now, hammering hard against Viggo’s fingers where they’re pressed tight against his wrist. 

Still, Avi’s had a lifetime of practice in keeping certain thoughts off his face, and whether or not Viggo understands why his heart is beating a mile a minute, Avi is sure he can maintain a veneer of plausible deniability.

Provided, of course, that that’s what Viggo actually wants him to do.

“You,” Avi starts, holding himself very still, “you can take whatever you want.”

It’s a dangerous game, he knows that, but he doesn’t really believe that anything will come of it. The lingering looks, the unnecessary touches, the seemingly innocent questions about why he lives in Chelsea and whether or not he lives alone—even if Avi is reading it all correctly, there’s no way in hell it would go anywhere beyond this: an occasional tension in the air, and an unspoken acceptance of things that can never be. And not just because of the scars and tattoos all over his body, scars and tattoos that aren’t even his and that no one else—least of all Viggo—can ever be allowed to see. 

But Avi’s been in the game for long enough that he knows backing down completely is as big a mistake as admitting what he wants outright. There's no room for weakness here, not even in the relative safety of Viggo’s own office, here in the Bratva’s own territory. 

Viggo just stares at him and doesn't say a word. Avi figured out very quickly that despite the unpredictable outbursts and sudden swings in temper, this is the real reason for Viggo’s reputation—the unexpected, unnerving silences, as well as a poker face that very few people can read. 

Avi, however, can read it better than most. 

Viggo nods to the lighter in Avi’s hand. And then he just—waits. It's no less an order for being unspoken, and Avi doesn’t refuse it. He rolls the sparkwheel down with his thumb, bringing the flame to life, and as soon as he does it Viggo tugs hard at his wrist, hard enough that Avi is forced to stand or else be pulled right out of his chair. 

“Hey," he protests, "wait a sec—” 

But Viggo chooses that moment to lean down, to lean in, until his mouth is so close to Avi’s fingers that Avi can almost feel the brush of his lips. Then he pulls back, just enough that the end of his cigarette meets the lighter’s flame—and when he inhales, when he sucks hard on the filter and ignites the tobacco, he looks right into Avi's eyes and stands up too, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and leaning so far forward that for a split-second of insanity, Avi is sure that Viggo is going to kiss him.

“Whatever I want, hmm?” Viggo murmurs, his face only inches away. He lets go of Avi’s wrist and takes another drag. “You should be more wary of making blanket statements, Avi. Especially to me.” He holds out the cigarette without explanation, until Avi takes it from him. “But I appreciate the sentiment of your words.”

Avi hesitates, then takes a drag from the cigarette himself. Viggo’s gaze flicks down, staring briefly at his mouth as it closes around the filter—at the exact same place that Viggo’s own mouth touched, just a moment ago. Avi gives the cigarette back as he exhales. If Viggo notices how unsteady his hand is, he doesn’t mention it.

“That’s the funny thing about lawyers, sir,” Avi says, even as he wonders if he’s pushing this too far. “The good ones don’t make promises they can’t keep.”


	11. 2005 - Part I

**Hell’s Kitchen**

There is too much noise, too much light, too much movement all around him. Viggo tries to make sense of it all but he can’t quite focus, a dull but persistent pain somewhere at the back of his head making his thoughts unravel before they’re ever fully formed. 

Urgent yelling and rapid bursts of gunfire punctuate the fog in his brain, and Viggo staggers to the side before strong hands grip his arms and roughly pull him upright. 

“Get him on the—”

“Jesus, hurry up, he’s gonna—”

“Yeah yeah, I got it, just—”

“Stop this at once,” Viggo orders, only what comes out is more like a strangled groan. Then he’s suddenly pushed back, back and down and his legs are lifted up and the whole world spins wildly on its axis, leaving Viggo with no idea of whether he’s even still standing. 

But then a hand brushes over his forehead and a quiet voice filters in through the noise, and Viggo does not understand why this is the thing that steadies him but it does, it _does_. Fingers barely graze his jaw before lifting away again and Viggo grabs blindly for them, not wanting to be lost in the chaos again, searching for his anchor. He makes contact with something—a wrist, perhaps?—that goes still at his touch, before pulling carefully out of his grasp. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay,” someone says, again and again, before another voice overtakes it—one that’s rougher and harsher and yelling orders in Russian, instead of whispering nonsense words of comfort in English. 

“Kirill,” Viggo manages to say. For some reason the word clears his head a little, makes him remember where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing—and who else is supposed to be with him. A sudden terrible thought makes him sit up, or at least try to; a hand on his chest forces him to lay still and Viggo’s panic starts bleeding into rage. 

“Kirill,” he says again, struggling to get up. “The Irish, ублюдки—they betrayed us, the explosion—Kirill, where are we, we need to go back—”

“You need medical attention,” Kirill interrupts from somewhere nearby. The front seat, Viggo realises, they’re in a car and Kirill is in the front seat and they’re driving, they're driving away. But that means—

“We need to go back,” Viggo repeats, more urgently this time, and tries to push the hand on his chest out of the way. “Avi, where is Avi, we need to—” 

“Hey,” someone says, from somewhere right above him. A familiar face leans into his field of vision and the hand on his chest starts moving, a slow small circle that makes Viggo feel unaccountably warm. “No need for that, sir. I’m right here.” 

**

**Upper East Side**

Avi’s lighting his sixth cigarette when Doctor Lebedev finally emerges from Viggo’s bedroom. 

“Well?” he asks unthinkingly, already stepping forward to meet him before remembering that he’s got no right to do so. He might be trusted enough to be allowed into Viggo’s home now but it’s still not his place to take charge, especially at a time like this. 

Avi briefly raises his hands and steps back again. Kirill cuts him a sharp glance but doesn’t otherwise comment, just gestures for the doctor to give them his assessment. 

“Worse than it looks,” is the terse reply. “No broken bones, mild concussion... some severe bruising, especially on his back. But he needs to rest.”

Kirill takes a deep breath, the only outward sign that he’d been worried at all. “Can he be left alone?” he asks. “His son is at boarding school, and I have work to do in Viggo’s stead. I cannot stay here.” 

The doctor gives him an unimpressed look. “What’s more important?" he asks. "Your work, or your Pakhan?”

Kirill doesn’t rise to the bait. In fact, he doesn’t even bother acknowledging the question, much less get offended by it.

“How long does he need supervision?” is all he says. Doctor Lebedev looks mildly disappointed. 

“Overnight should be sufficient. He doesn’t have to be kept awake, but someone should keep an eye on him.”

Kirill nods. “Very well. I’ll get Francis to—”

“I’ll do it,” Avi says.

Slowly, Kirill turns to face him. The look on his face remains totally impassive but they’ve worked together for long enough now that Avi can tell what he's probably thinking.

“I know I’m not great with a gun,” he admits. “But I’m not totally useless, either. And you know Viggo put security on this building when he first moved in.” 

“This is true,” Kirill mutters. “But it’s still—”

“You can leave a couple guys outside the door,” Avi interrupts. “But we both know that you and Francis can better serve Viggo by actually doing your jobs, not staying here and twiddling your thumbs while you watch him sleep.”

“And you?” Kirill looks him in the eye and Avi wonders, not for the first time, exactly how much Kirill has seen. “How would you staying here serve Mr Tarasov?”

It’s a very deliberately worded question, and Avi gives a very deliberately worded answer. 

“There aren’t many people Viggo trusts enough to let them see him out of commission like this.” He stares right back and doesn’t so much as blink. “Do you think his trust in me is misplaced?”

Kirill doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t ask him to leave, either.

**

“Woah, wait a second, where do you think you’re going?” Avi scrambles up from the armchair near the door and carefully pushes Viggo back against the bed. “The doc said to rest, so you’re going to rest.” 

“Water—”

“Got some right here.” He carefully raises the bottle to Viggo’s lips and helps him take a small sip. “Now lie back and—”

“Think of Russia?”

Avi freezes. “What?”

But Viggo’s eyes are closed and he already seems to be drifting off again. Avi is just about to go back to the armchair when Viggo suddenly reaches up, hand groping at empty air until his fingers make contact with Avi’s hip. 

“No,” he mumbles. His eyes are still closed. “Оставаться.” 

Viggo’s fingers are very warm, so warm that Avi half-wonders if he’s running a fever. Avi can feel the heat seeping in, right through his clothes, and in a moment of weakness he stands perfectly still for a few seconds, letting it warm him through. No one will know, he tells himself, not even Viggo will know what this does to him. That it makes him think of how much warmer those fingers would feel against bare skin, how they’d look tracing scars from wounds he’d never borne and tattoos he’d never chosen. 

“Оставаться,” Viggo says again. “Оставайся здесь, не уходи—”

His hand starts to drop away and Avi impulsively grabs his wrist. No one will know, he thinks again, as he curls his fingers around Viggo’s hand and commits the feeling to memory. No one ever has to know. 

“Оставайся здесь и будь в безопасности, я могу защитить тебя здесь и защитить тебя...”

“English, Viggo,” Avi whispers, more out of habit than anything else. “Please.” He starts to pull away but Viggo’s fingers tighten around his hand.

“Avi.” Viggo’s voice is thick with sleep but the words are perfectly, disastrously clear. “You must—stay. Оставайся... safe, Avi, I can keep you safe—”

Viggo’s grip starts to falter as he slips into a deeper sleep, but he doesn’t let go completely. And after a brief internal debate, Avi allows himself one more small weakness and sits down on the edge of the bed, Viggo’s hand still resting against his own. He’ll go back to the armchair long before Viggo wakes up again, and by then Avi knows he’ll have all his masks firmly back in place. For now, though, Avi does something he's very rarely done, something he hasn’t really been able to do since he was seven years old and found someone else’s scars on his skin. Avi sits and holds another man’s hand and just lets himself _be_.

No one will know, he tells himself again, staring at their joined hands laying on the bed. He glances up, lets his gaze travel over Viggo's face in a way he's never done before—down the line of his nose and over the shape of his mouth, across his bearded jaw and the pale shadow of his eyelashes against his cheeks.

Avi takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Just a few more minutes, he thinks. Just a few more minutes. No one else will ever know. 


	12. 2005 - Part II

**Brighton Beach**

“Pick up, pick up,” Viggo mutters, cellphone pressed against his ear. But the dial tone continues without interruption, until a recorded voice takes over and tells him to leave a message after the beep. 

“Черт побери,” Viggo swears, and barely resists the urge to fling the phone at the wall. “Kirill!” he yells. “Kirill, where the fuck are you?”

The office door immediately swings open, revealing Kirill standing stoically on the other side.

“Yes, sir?”

“Avi is not answering his phone.” 

Kirill simply gives him a single, terse nod. “Five minutes, sir,” he replies, and five minutes later, the two of them are in a car and heading for Avi’s apartment in Chelsea. Even Viggo’s impatience, however, is no match for New York City traffic, and the journey seems to take hours. Viggo keeps trying Avi’s phone but to no avail; he’s invariably sent to voicemail and each time he is, Viggo invariably becomes more and more enraged. 

Or at least, he tells himself it’s rage. It’s easier to deal with that than—

“ETA,” he demands, throwing his cellphone down in disgust. 

“Less than 10 minutes, sir.” Kirill glances at him in the rearview mirror and says nothing more, but Viggo has known him for far too long to not recognise the look on his face, inscrutable as it may be to anyone else. 

“They found out what he did for us,” Viggo says shortly. “And they found out where he lives.” 

He doesn’t need to elaborate and Kirill doesn’t need to reply. The car just starts moving that little bit faster, and Kirill’s eyes go just that little bit colder, and Viggo knows he’s been understood. The possibility that Kirill’s understanding goes even further than that crosses Viggo’s mind but he forces it out of the way for now; whatever Kirill may or may not suspect, Viggo will not give him—or anyone else, for that matter—any concrete evidence of any kind. After nearly 40 years of practice, Viggo knows how to be discreet.

But that still does nothing to ease the way his heart hammers in his chest at the thought of what might be waiting for them in Avi’s apartment. Blood? Mutilations? Gore? Or perhaps—and here Viggo's jaw clenches, the mere thought enough to trigger a surge of fury that almost overcomes him—a cooling body slumped on the floor where the living, breathing man once stood? 

“Блядь,” Viggo mutters, half to himself. “I should have posted guards at his door—Kirill, why did we not post guards at his door?”

“He was quite insistent, sir.” Kirill makes a sharp left turn and starts slowing down, peering out the windscreen. “He is unusually protective of his privacy.” 

“Privacy,” Viggo scoffs. “What is privacy compared to a bullet in the back of one’s head?” 

“Or worse,” Kirill agrees, just before the car comes to an abrupt stop. “This is it, we’re here.” Viggo immediately reaches for the door handle but Kirill somehow manages to get out of the car before Viggo even touches the lock. “Stay behind me, sir. Just in case.”

Kirill’s caution appears to be unwarranted, however, and they cross the street unchallenged. Indeed, nothing seems amiss—no suspicious people or cars or anything else that sets off Kirill’s highly trained senses. But Avi still won’t answer his phone and Viggo knows that nothing will ease the sense of dread in his chest until he sees for himself that Avi is alive and well.

In the lobby, Viggo impatiently jabs a finger at the elevator button. Ordinarily he would just take the stairs but the incident at Hell's Kitchen was less than a week ago, and he’s unable to hide the fact that even just the jog from the car has caused him considerable pain. Kirill eyes him as they wait, but Viggo knows he won’t say a word—he's one of the old guard, one of the few Viggo brought with him from Moscow, and he’d just as soon cut off his own hand than question Viggo’s behaviour, no matter how strange.

Kirill is equally silent when the elevator finally arrives, and remains silent as it takes them up to the ninth floor. But his gun is ready and his eyes are focused and whatever they might find in Avi’s apartment, Viggo has at least one comforting thought: an attack on Avi is an attack on the Bratva, and that is an insult neither of them will allow to go unpunished.


	13. 2005 - Part III

**Chelsea**

He’s just stepped out of the shower when he hears it, coming from somewhere outside his apartment door: strange clicks and tapping noises, followed by the distinctive scrape of metal against metal.

Almost two decades of working with a certain kind of clientele have honed Avi’s instincts to a very fine point, and he knows right away that something’s wrong. Those are the sounds of someone picking a lock and the odds of it being some random petty thief are slim. He scrambles to get a towel around his hips, slipping a little on the tile, then slowly creeps into the living room, still dripping wet.

He looks around for a weapon even though he knows he’s got no chance against a pro—and especially not one who serves the Table—but going down without a fight just isn’t an option. It’s a matter of survival, of course, but more importantly, it’s also a matter of Viggo’s pride. If word got out that his right-hand man just laid down and died like a dog, Viggo’s reputation would take a major hit and there’s no way in hell Avi’s letting that happen. 

He picks up a baseball bat that he’d left lying near the couch and edges closer to the door. There are voices outside—at least two men, but they’re speaking too quietly for Avi to make out what they’re saying. It occurs to him then that he should probably call one of his crew for help, but his cellphone’s in the bedroom and he isn’t sure how much time he has left before whoever’s outside breaks in.

The doorknob rattles as the scrapes and taps get louder, and something falls to the floor with a tinny clang. And then:

“ _Блядь_!” 

Avi stops mid-step. He might not understand what it means but after five solid years of life in the Bratva, he can recognise Russian swearing when he hears it. Especially Russian swearing coming from one specific Russian mouth. 

“What the hell,” Avi whispers, slowly lowering the bat. “Why would—”

That’s when the door is violently kicked in. It bounces hard on its hinges, shockingly loud, and Avi barely manages to jump out of the way—but not before he sees Viggo suddenly freeze. And not just freeze—there’s something in his eyes that Avi can’t even begin to describe. Shock, maybe, or disbelief, but it’s tinged with something else, too, something almost like—

That’s it, Avi thinks, staring blankly, not understanding why he’s seeing what he’s seeing. Because for one brief moment, Viggo is unable to hide the look of absolute horror on his face. 

Or, no—maybe not horror, Avi realises, as a slow-dawning dread starts to wash over him, as Viggo’s gaze flicks down over his body. Over his bare chest, and bare stomach and bare arms, over every inch of his naked, exposed skin. Skin that's covered with scars and tattoos that are now plainly visible for anyone to see.

No, Avi thinks again, and tries to swallow past his bone-dry throat. Probably not horror. Probably more like rage.

“Viggo,” Avi says, forcing the word out. “This isn’t—I can explain, I swear, this isn’t what it looks like—”

“Kirill,” Viggo interrupts. His voice is flat. “Вернитесь в офис.” 

It’s only then that Avi actually realises Kirill is there. And if he wasn’t already acutely aware of how badly he’s fucked up, the look on Kirill’s face would make it crystal clear.

In all the years they’ve worked together, Avi has never seen Kirill look so shocked before. Not when they’ve watched the High Table’s most sadistic employees do their thing, not when he’s been forced to endure torture at the hands of an enemy, not even when Viggo almost got himself blown up in Hell’s Kitchen last week. He’s staring at Avi now with wide, disbelieving eyes, so utterly incredulous that he doesn’t even respond to Viggo’s direct order. And this from a man that Avi has seen take a literal bullet and barely even flinch.

“ _Kirill_ ,” Viggo snaps. He turns and looks him in the eye. “Вернитесь в офис. И никому не говорите об этом. Ни один. Никто.” Viggo takes a breath and his voice goes very quiet. “Do you understand me?” he adds, in English.

This time, Kirill answers immediately. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Kirill gives Avi one last, hard look before he turns around and leaves. He doesn’t wait for the elevator, taking the stairs instead, and as soon as the stairwell door swings shut behind him, Viggo turns and stalks into the apartment without another word.

He closes and locks the front door. Then he just stands there, unmoving and silent, staring at his hands on the doorknob. 

“Viggo,” Avi starts, just to fill the heavy silence, but Viggo whips around without warning and Avi instinctively backs away. 

He’s never been afraid of Viggo, not really—he’s seen what Viggo is capable of, of course, and knows exactly what kind of violence those fists can unleash, but none of it has ever been directed at him. Right now, though, with Viggo still staring at him with that terrifyingly blank look on his face, Avi remembers every bruised and battered body he’s had to make dinner reservations for, every brutal punch and blow that left Viggo’s knuckles swollen and raw and splattered his fists with blood. Beating someone senseless with his bare hands is a punishment reserved only for those who anger Viggo on a personal level, and if he believes that Avi has disrespected not just him, but the Bratva as a whole—

“It’s not what you think,” Avi says, desperation making his voice even more hoarse than usual. “Please, Viggo, just let me ex—”

But he falls silent when Viggo slowly takes off his coat, then his jacket, before turning around to lay both across the back of the couch. And when Viggo unbuttons his cuffs and starts rolling up his sleeves, Avi closes his eyes and knows there’s no getting out of this now. 

Maybe Viggo will make it quick, he thinks, leaning back against the wall and trying unsuccessfully to stay calm. Maybe his years of service will count for something, maybe his achievements could—

“I just want to say,” Avi whispers, eyes still closed, “that the prospect of getting beaten to death isn’t half as bad as the thought of you believing I’d disrespect you like this.” 

There’s no response.

“Because I wouldn’t,” Avi adds. He thinks of the look in Viggo’s eyes when he lights a cigarette for him, of how Viggo will always translate for him whenever he asks. “I know how this looks but I _swear_ to you, Viggo, I would never—”

“I know.”

Avi jumps at the sound of his voice, much closer and quieter than he’d expected it to be. 

“Open your eyes, Avi.”

Avi does as he’s told. And what he sees is—

“What,” he whispers. “ _What_ —”

Viggo’s sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, his shirt hanging unbuttoned and open, and he’s not wearing anything underneath it. There's nothing but skin—bare, exposed, naked skin. Skin that’s covered with—

Avi stares at scars and tattoos he’s already seen, some that he’s seen every day for _years_. The cross and the eagle, the skulls and the stars, the bullet wounds near Viggo’s ribs. The only difference is that they’re marking someone else’s body—a body that, Avi realises with sudden, heart-stopping clarity, that must belong to his—to the man who must be his—

Avi lifts his gaze. Viggo is looking right at him, the expression on his face still eerily blank. 

“You,” Avi breathes. “We’re—?” 

Viggo takes a step forward, then another and another, until he’s less than an arm’s length away.

“Apparently so.” Viggo lifts a hand and reaches up, fingers not quite touching Avi’s chest. His mouth moves but no sound comes out, and it’s only then that Avi realises that Viggo’s hand is shaking—that his whole body, in fact, is shaking, and he doesn’t seem able to stop. “All this time,” Viggo adds, his voice as unsteady as his hands, “all this time...” 

His words trail off and his fingers trail down, hovering just above the lines of ink and scar tissue. He doesn’t make contact, not quite, but Avi can still feel the heat from his hands; can imagine how hot his actual touch might feel against bare, naked skin. The thought makes him shudder and Viggo’s hand pauses, fingers almost brushing his abdomen, just above the edge of the towel around his hips.

“Thirty-six years, I wondered who you were,” Viggo whispers. “Your name, your face…” His other hand comes up and hovers near Avi’s jaw. “I did not believe I would ever see it. I reconciled myself to this, accepted it as an irreversible truth and now, now I see this—” 

His fingers land, finally, and press carefully, almost hesitantly, against the cross on Avi’s chest. 

“You bear my honours,” Viggo says, voice still so ruinously quiet. His hand drifts down, fingers tracing over scars that came from bullets, from stab wounds, from who knows what. “You bear my failures.” 

Avi feels the tremor in Viggo’s hands intensify; hears it echoed in the roughness of his voice.

“You bear my whole life,” Viggo adds, leaning in until Avi feels his breath against his neck, “all over you.”

Viggo pulls back a little, studying Avi’s face, and Avi has to shut his eyes again, not wanting to know what Viggo might see there. That it’s not just the newfound knowledge that they’re bound that’s making Avi feel so undone—it’s the fact that it’s _Viggo_ who’s touching him, Viggo who’s leaning into him, Viggo who he's wanted even before he ever knew what lay all over Viggo’s skin. 

“I am sorry, Avi.”

That makes him open his eyes again. The regret in Viggo’s voice is like a knife in the chest, clear and sharp and cutting him clean in two. It’s enough to pierce through the mess of his thoughts and lets him do what he needs to do—what he always does, in the end. 

“Right,” Avi says, forcing the word out. “Of course.” He clears his throat and takes a deep breath, and tries not to think about how he can smell Viggo’s aftershave, or feel the flush on Viggo's skin, or the fact that Viggo’s mouth is only a few inches away from his own. “I can be out of the city in a few hours. Out of the country by the end of the day. No one’ll ever know. I’ll just be gone and it’ll be like—like we’re not—that neither of us even have—”

But Avi stops then, unable to finish, because for possibly the first time in his entire life, the words just refuse to come. 

“Avi.” 

He starts a little when Viggo’s hand cups his jaw, forcing him to turn his head and meet Viggo’s eyes again. 

“I’m sorry that I made a stranger bear… things they had no choice in bearing. But I am not sorry,” Viggo adds, pressing in closer, “to know now who it is who bore them.” 

His fingers brush Avi’s ribs again, a barely-there touch that makes Avi curl his hands into fists to stop himself from doing something very, very stupid. 

“You’ve always been so good at anticipating what I want from you,” Viggo says quietly. “You do things for me before I even need to ask. But this time, I think, you misunderstand my intent.” 

And the touch on Avi’s skin becomes firmer, strong fingers closing around his waist and holding on tight.

“This time,” Viggo adds, holding Avi’s hips against the wall, “why don’t you tell me what you want from _me_?”

Avi shifts, damp skin sticking to the plaster. 

“I—I can’t,” he whispers. Viggo’s bare torso is so close that Avi can almost feel it pressing against him already and it’s—he can’t think clearly, can’t find the right words and form the perfect sentences like he’d normally be able to do in his sleep. It’s just too much—too much information, too much sensory input, coming at him from all sides: Viggo’s hands around his waist, Viggo’s breath against his neck, Viggo’s voice low and quiet in his ear. The thought of every scar he's ever had, mirrored on Viggo's skin. “I can’t.”

“Then let me help you,” Viggo says. “I’ll ask you questions, Avi. You need only answer them. Yes or no.” One of Viggo’s hands drifts lower, skimming lightly over his stomach and then up towards his ribs again. There’s a scar there, a long and jagged one, from the time he got mugged in Central Park. “You had to conceal these, didn’t you? From anyone who—” Viggo fingers twitch a little. “Anyone who you were with.” 

Avi has to swallow at the note of jealousy in Viggo’s voice. 

“Yes,” he says. 

“So no one else has seen them?”

“No.” 

Viggo’s fingers slowly trace the cross on his sternum, up and down and left and right, then back up and down again. He leans in even closer, and his voice gets even rougher, and if he moves his leg an inch to the right he’ll know exactly what Avi wants without needing to say another word.

“And no one else has touched them?” Viggo asks.

Avi manages to shake his head.

“No.”

“And…” Viggo bows his head a little, breathing Avi in. He licks his lips and presses his other hand against Avi’s stomach, thumb brushing the skin just above the towel that’s barely clinging to Avi’s hips. “And no one has ever tasted them?”

Avi tries to keep still, tries to keep from making the one tiny move that will bring Viggo’s hand to where he desperately wants it to go. Viggo’s fingers are so close, so _close_ , and the only thing between them is a thin damp towel—

“No,” he whispers, panting a little. “No one, no one ever.” 

“But did you want it, I wonder?” Viggo lifts his head and searches Avi's eyes. His thumb keeps sweeping over Avi’s abdomen, back and forth, back and forth, over and over again. “Did you think about it, Avi? Not just someone seeing them, or touching them, or tasting them.” Viggo’s gaze lowers to his mouth. “Did you think about him recognising them, knowing what they meant, understanding what it was like to have...” He trails off and licks his lips again. “Did you think about how they would feel against _his_ hands, how they would taste against _his_ tongue? How he could close his eyes and still know the exact shape of each one?”

Viggo’s breath is hot against Avi’s mouth, hot and ragged and shallow. 

“Did you think of lying under him?” Viggo whispers against his lips. “His scars pressed against yours…” Viggo’s thumb pushes under the edge of the towel and Avi bites his lip, straining to keep still. But Viggo is relentless, and his voice keeps getting lower and rougher, and his words keep hitting their mark, and Avi can’t—

“Did you think about him giving you new marks?” Viggo stares at his mouth and Avi barely notices the towel starting to slip off his hips. “Ones you wanted,” Viggo whispers, “ones you craved, ones that you would _beg_ him for—”

“Yes,” Avi bursts out, unable to keep it in any longer. “Yes, over and over, again and again, in bed and in the shower and when I was alone and even when I wasn’t, but I—” He cuts himself off and takes a shuddering breath. 

“But what?”

And Avi looks at Viggo and sees his own thoughts reflected back at him, the conflict and the desire and the denial. He sees why Viggo isn’t just taking what he wants like he always does, why he’s instead holding himself so still; why Viggo is hesitating, even now, even when Avi is so obviously hard and desperate and practically vibrating with need.

Avi takes another breath, slower this time, and deeper too, and now— _now_ the words finally come.

“But even if it wasn’t you,” he says, looking up and meeting Viggo’s eyes, “I still wouldn’t want you to stop.” 

Viggo sucks in a breath. He closes his eyes for a moment, something Avi can’t read passing over his face, and when he opens them again Avi sees raw, unfiltered desire there, of a kind he suspects Viggo has allowed very few people to see. 

“You didn’t answer my initial question,” Viggo says. His gaze flicks down to Avi’s mouth again. “What do you want from me?”

Avi doesn’t hesitate.

“Kiss me.”

And Viggo does. Slow and careful at first, almost chaste, but Avi can't help himself, not anymore—a tiny sound escapes his throat and his mouth opens wider, his teeth graze Viggo's lips, and whatever was holding Viggo back before just crumbles away to nothing, just turns to ash in Avi's wake. Viggo grabs him by the waist and slams him against the wall, tongue pushing in and taking everything Avi’s offering—everything, right down to the bone. It’s hard and dirty and desperate, no technique or finesse at all, and Avi would be embarrassed about how close he is already if he wasn’t so sure that Viggo’s right there with him.

He shifts against the wall again, trying in vain to find some shred of self-control. But the movement makes their cocks line up and Avi just reacts on instinct, as powerless to stop himself from grabbing Viggo by the hips and pulling him closer as he is to stop his own heart from beating. 

And Viggo just moves in kind, shamelessly rubbing against him and moaning into his mouth, kissing him and kissing him like he doesn't know how to stop. The towel slips dangerously low and Avi barely even notices, the friction so good it's almost painful and he’s so close now that he’s actually starting to shake. Almost, he thinks desperately, almost, _almost_ there—

“Блядь,” Viggo gasps. He turns his head and pants hard into Avi's neck, whole body held taut and eyes shut tight, and Avi just assumes he got there first. But then he sees the way Viggo’s jaw is clenched, feels the faint tremor that runs right through him, and Avi realises that it wasn't a mindblowing orgasm that made Viggo stop just now.

“Oh, shit, Viggo,” Avi whispers. 

He starts to pull his hands away, belatedly remembering the doctor's assessment and how Viggo had barely been able to move after the explosion. That was only a few days ago; of course Viggo wouldn’t have healed yet, of course he’d still be in a huge amount of pain—

“I’m sorry,” he adds quickly, “I'm sorry, I forgot—”

“So did I.” Viggo grabs his wrists before he can let go completely, the ghost of a smile in his eyes. “It seems you are quite an effective distraction for the pain. But I’m not sure that I—” He stops and laughs a little, a low quiet chuckle, and for no good reason at all the sound of it makes Avi's whole body flush. “I’ve waited almost 40 years,” Viggo adds. “I suppose I can wait a few more days.”

But the thought of being denied this, even for only a little while, isn’t something Avi wants to consider. Instead, he just does what he does best, what got him an invitation into Viggo’s life to begin with: he identifies the problem, and he finds a way around it. 

“What if you don’t have to?”

Viggo raises an eyebrow. “I appreciate your faith in my skills but I can barely move my back.” 

Avi slowly pushes one hand under the hem of Viggo’s open shirt, still half-expecting to be told to stop—that despite everything, actually touching him like this is crossing a line that Viggo won’t allow. But Viggo says nothing, just watching his face as he very carefully runs his fingers up and down Viggo's spine. 

“You won’t have to move your back,” Avi promises. “All you need to do is lie down.” He hesitates, then leans in and brushes his lips over Viggo’s warm, welcoming mouth. “And let me take care of the rest.” 

**

He’s surprised when Viggo lets him take the lead. But then, Avi thinks, as Viggo watches him from near the bed, if there’s one thing Viggo is guaranteed to be, it’s unpredictable.

“Can I,” Avi starts, and tugs a little at Viggo’s open shirt. Viggo simply nods, openly curious about what he's planning to do.

Avi pushes the shirt off Viggo's shoulders. It's a strange sensation, seeing Viggo like this; familiar and unfamiliar, all at the same time. He knows exactly where every scar is, and every tattoo, but it’s still something of a shock to see them marking skin that isn’t his own, to watch them move on a body that he doesn't know. Or at least, one he doesn't know yet.

“I remember when you got these,” he murmurs, running his fingertips over the bullet scars on Viggo’s stomach. “I saw them show up on my skin and I thought that maybe you’d—” 

“Yes,” Viggo interrupts. “I very nearly did.” 

Avi takes a breath. “I thought about that too, you know. If you were alone, or needed help, or... if you were thinking about—” He stops, suddenly reluctant to give too much of himself away.

But Viggo reaches out then, and mirrors Avi’s touch, pressing his fingers against the matching scars on Avi’s stomach. 

Viggo doesn’t respond to the cut-off question but Avi’s pretty sure he knows what the answer is anyway. Viggo’s eyes are too serious, too dark with the same secrets that Avi's unknowingly shared for years. How strange, he thinks now, as Viggo takes his hands and moves them to the waistband of his own pants, how unlikely and convoluted a path they had to follow to both end up here, in the same place, standing face-to-face. How strange, but how fitting, too. 

After all, Avi thinks, as he undoes the button and carefully pulls the zipper down, as new and unexpected as this is, they’ve still been connected for years. Decades, even. And that connection will still be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, no matter what else happens between them now.

Avi used to think that having a soulmate was like being caught in a trap he couldn't escape from. But when Viggo allows himself to be pushed down on the bed, when Viggo’s eyes drink him in as he takes off the towel and straddles his hips, Avi thinks that it’s less like a trap, now, and more like a destination. Against all the odds he found his way here, to Viggo, and Viggo found his way here to him. Born and raised on different continents, living lives that should never have crossed paths—but they did, and are still, and for now, at least, those paths are in perfect parallel.

Avi traces the scars and tattoos with his fingers, and his lips, and his tongue, but the more he tastes the less he’s interested in what’s already familiar to him. Familiar on the surface, anyway; perhaps in time Viggo will tell him what they all mean, or share the stories of where they came from. But right now, Avi is more interested in the things he _doesn’t_ know, the things he’s never seen or touched or even been able to imagine—all the unmarked places, all the spaces in between. Those are Viggo’s and Viggo’s alone and yet they’re being offered as readily as the marks they already share, and as Avi runs his tongue over them, trying to read the parts of Viggo’s life that he was never privy to before, he hears Viggo’s breath catch in understanding and a surge of possessiveness sweeps over him that makes him crave an even deeper connection.

“Viggo,” he whispers against the scar on Viggo's abdomen, the one that Avi must have given him, so many years ago. “Viggo, I—”

He falls silent when Viggo’s hand fists in his hair. He isn’t sure how long they’ve been at this, how long he’s been tasting and exploring and learning, but Viggo’s fingers are shaking and Avi’s not doing much better. He can’t seem to catch his breath, less because of what he’s been doing and more the knowledge that it's Viggo lying under him—warm and solid and undeniably, overwhelmingly _real_. 

But when he looks up and meets Viggo’s gaze, the sheer heat in them reminds Avi of the fact that they're both painfully hard and dangerously close, and have been for a while now.

He doesn’t have to do this. Avi’s sure of that, even if Viggo doesn’t seem able to form actual words right now. He could use his hands, or he could use his mouth, and they’d both still get what they wanted. But Avi knows he can do better than that, and if there’s anything he’s never been able to abide, it’s getting by on the bare minimum when he can show off a little instead.

"Let me take care of it,” he says again. "I'll make it good, Viggo. I promise." 

Viggo understands at once, eyes going even darker, even hotter, and Avi has to close his own eyes for a little while, words failing him for the second time tonight. This time, though, the loss is more than welcome.

He preps himself as fast as he can. Viggo doesn't say a word, just watches Avi touching himself with a focus that makes Avi feel utterly exposed. Viggo watches his every move, taking note of every reaction to every stroke of his fingers and every time something makes him gasp. This isn’t actually something Avi’s done that often before, but he’s confident he can put on a show. What does a decent lawyer do, after all, if not convince people he knows what he’s doing? And Avi knows he’s a more than decent lawyer—he’s a phenomenal one. 

When Avi finally gets into position and starts lowering himself down, Viggo’s face twists a little, almost like he’s in pain again. His chest heaves with the effort of keeping still and Avi is distantly surprised that even now, he’s trying so hard—injuries aside, he expected that Viggo would do what he usually does when he’s offered something he wants, and just take and take and _take_ , because it’s his god-given right as a Pakhan to do so. But then, Avi realises, as Viggo’s hands come up and carefully circle his waist, as Viggo shifts beneath him and hits the sweet spot that makes Avi bite his lip and shut his eyes, that’s not entirely true. 

He asks Viggo to translate, and Viggo translates without complaint. He sits at Viggo's bar, and Viggo pours him a drink without hesitation. He asked Viggo for a chance once, half a decade ago now, to prove himself worthy of the Bratva—and Viggo didn’t just give it to him, he took Avi into his inner circle and made him a senior member in everything but name. 

So yes, Viggo tends to take—but when it comes to Avi, he’s always been willing to give, too.

Avi starts to move. Nice and easy at first, just a few slow rolls of his hips, but Viggo is already tense and shaking beneath him, whole body held taut as a coiled spring. And when Avi experimentally clenches around him, Viggo's mouth falls open and a stream of Russian spills out that's so mangled, even Avi can tell it’s gibberish.

Or mostly gibberish, anyway. There’s one word he does understand.

“Ah, Блядь,” Viggo moans, eyes shut tight. “Стоп, да—не больше—пожалуйста— _Avi_ —”

And Avi starts laughing, a little smug and a lot breathless and almost bursting with something he isn't sure he knows how to say out loud.

“English, Viggo,” Avi manages to say, rocking his hips and clenching again. “Please.” 

“Пошёл на́ хуй,” Viggo gasps, opening his eyes, but Avi can tell that he’d be laughing too if he weren’t on the verge of coming. “Муда́к.” 

And then something else lights Viggo’s eyes, something a little more calculating, and before Avi can do anything but feel a faint sense of apprehension, Viggo’s fingers wrap around his cock and _squeeze_. 

“Jesus,” Avi chokes, curling in on himself a little. “Vigg—”

But then Viggo starts stroking, long hard pulls that make Avi’s body move on pure instinct, rolling his hips again and arching his back and riding Viggo’s cock like this isn’t the first time he’s ever done it, like he’s a goddamn cowboy and he's been doing this for years. It’s almost too much, every movement causing sensations too intense for him to process—rocking forward makes Viggo drive in deeper; rocking back makes Viggo tighten his hand. 

He knows he won’t last much longer, neither of them will, and they’re both well beyond words now. Viggo’s gaze still bores right into him, not looking away for even a second, staring like getting to see Avi come is a right that nothing will take away from him. And when Viggo tenses beneath him, when Viggo suddenly lets go of his cock and grabs him by the hips instead, Avi knows that now, finally, Viggo is about to do what Avi expected he’d do from the start.

He's going to _take_.

Viggo holds him still and starts fucking him in earnest, heedless of the damage he might do to his back. His hands are like a vise around Avi's hips, locking him in place and fucking Avi deeper and harder than he's ever been fucked before. And all Avi can do is close his eyes and take it, grabbing blindly for Viggo’s waist as he tries to somehow stay upright. 

It doesn’t last long; it can’t, not when they were both so far gone already. Viggo shudders and comes inside him, and as soon as Avi feels it, he’s coming like a fountain too. It streaks Viggo’s chest as Avi moans above him, and it's almost like sharing another scar, another mark that will end up every bit as permanent as all the other ones they already share. But it's what you can't see, Avi thinks, as Viggo pulls him down for a kiss, then another and another, it's the things you can't see that are the most important part. Because the story might have started with scars and ink, with visible proof of their connection, but the rest of it, though? Everything from this moment onwards, whether it ends up leaving permanent marks or not—it's all going to be told in the spaces in between.

“I’ll, I’ll clean up,” Avi manages eventually, after several long minutes where all he’s physically capable of is trying to catch his breath. “I’ll check on your back. Just… just give me a sec, here.”

“There's no need to rush, Avi.” Viggo’s voice is gratifyingly hoarse but one of his hands runs up and down Avi’s bare thigh, over and over again, like he can’t stop himself from touching. And it’s that, more than anything else, that makes Avi lose his train of thought again. “I've recently learned,” Viggo adds, still stroking Avi's leg, “that some things are worth the wait.”


	14. 2010

**Upper East Side**

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Sir?” Kirill asks, from just outside the bathroom door. “Is everything all right?”

Viggo tucks his shirt back in and gets himself in order, straightening his jacket and tie.

“Fine,” he says shortly, and pulls the door open. 

Kirill still looks grim-faced, however, and Viggo knows that the prospect of him having a personal hitlist that Kirill is not privy to will plague the man for days. 

“Have you seen Avi today?” Viggo asks. It has the intended effect—Kirill goes from grim to stony in an instant; a subtle difference, yes, but a significant one. The former conveys displeasure, but the latter conveys absolutely nothing. 

“No, sir,” Kirill replies. “I don’t think he’s come in yet.” 

“No,” Viggo mutters. “I don’t suppose he has.” 

He dismisses Kirill shortly after that, which causes a faint ripple to disturb the blank slate of his face. Viggo pays it no mind. After everything Kirill has seen and done—by Viggo and for Viggo specifically, not the Bratva as a whole—he knows there’s no danger of betrayal there. Still, he is not above finding it amusing sometimes to see how far he can push, before Kirill's mask of perfect nothingness fractures a little. Making Kirill crack a smile is something he’s been working on for years.

Viggo waits until he’s absolutely sure he’s alone, and then he makes the call.

“Cats?” he demands without preamble, as soon as Avi answers the phone. “Fluffy cats?”

“I did my due diligence, Viggo.” Avi sounds insufferably smug and against his will and all good reason, it still makes Viggo smile. “I researched it for hours.”

Viggo takes a breath, one deep inhale in, one slow exhale out. Avi is silent on the other end of the line, but the silence is an expectant one and Viggo is reminded, again, of why Avi is so good at his job. As skilled as he is with language, with speeches and contracts and deals, he can also coax the truth out of people without saying a single word.

“So you know what it means, then,” Viggo says. It’s not a question. 

“I do.” There’s a brief pause, then low, quiet laughter. “You should be grateful I only got a small one, and on my abdomen, too.”

“Your abdomen? It’s practically on your groin!”

“Exactly. Not much chance of anyone seeing that patch of skin by accident. On you or me.” 

Viggo glances down at himself. He can’t see the tattoo at the moment, covered as it is with his shirt, but he still knows it’s there. That it will _always_ be there.

“You’re too meticulous about research to not have discovered that it was fake,” he says. “You must know the cat symbolism isn’t real.”

“Well, now it is.” Avi clears his throat. “I have it, and now you have it, so... now it’s real.” 

For a long moment, Viggo finds himself unable to say anything at all.

“Cats, of all things,” he mutters eventually, but there’s no heat in it.

“Consider it payback for all the tattoos you gave me,” Avi says, the amusement clear in his voice, “if that makes it easier for you to accept.”

Viggo presses his fingers against his stomach, where two smiling cats locked in a sweet embrace now mark him for life. 

“It doesn’t, actually."

“Oh?” Where once Avi might have sounded wary, now he only sounds curious. 

Viggo thinks of every other mark they share, some still fresh and vibrant and others ancient and faded; of how, at nine years old, he assumed he’d never know where some of them came from. 

"You know as well as I do that my acceptance is never in doubt. Not before," Viggo says, "and certainly not now.” He imagines the matching tattoo on Avi’s skin and laughs a little, unable to hold it back and in all truth, not really caring. “Even when it comes to fluffy cats.”

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, the cat tattoos were (are?) a real thing in the Russian mob:
> 
> http://fuel-design.com/russian-criminal-tattoo-archive/drawings/drawing-39/


End file.
